


Og nú brjótum við dauðalognið

by callunavulgari



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dystopia, F/M, M/M, Multi, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are changing, a rebellion is under way, and you’ll either rise from the ashes or be buried beneath them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Og nú brjótum við dauðalognið

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antistar_e (kaikamahine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaikamahine/gifts).



> Written for a meme. Antistar-e asked: 'How about — a Hunger Games AU of Harry Potter, character/pairing/OT3 of your choice?' And then this happened. [Mood music](http://8tracks.com/okayophelia/melancholy-for-a-sad-scene) that was listened to on repeat until I finished this. The only headcanon for who is from what district that didn't make it into the fic is that Dean and Seamus are both from 9, but they didn't actually make it into the story. I was sad. All the random people that I didn't mention by name are tagged, so yay, you now have names to go along with the people who died! Title is from 'Dauðalogn' by Sigur Ros, and more or less it means, "And now we break the dead calm."

The first time you saw the boy was the first time that the rest of the world saw him, when all of Panem started taking notice of the strangely emaciated boy from District 1, nostrils flaring like they could scent blood in the water.  
  
Surely you’d seen him _before_ , but if you had, it hadn’t been worth remembering.  
  
Maybe you’d caught a glimpse of him at the gates, or perhaps you’d seen him dash through the bloody massacre that was the Cornucopia. There was always that interview he’d had with Caesar Flickerman, where he’d been monotonous and uninteresting, which you won’t know until much later because you don’t much care for the interviews. Mother says that the dresses are pretty—look, Draco, isn’t that young thing lovely? Perhaps we should sponsor her this year, what do you say?  But you could care less about how pretty some girl is when the next time you’ll see them they’ll likely be hemorrhaging blood.  
  
But no, the first time you really truly take notice is the first time he puts a corpse in the dirt, hands still dripping red. He looks puzzled, almost, like he doesn’t quite know why the nice little girl from District 11 is bleeding out of a truly astonishingly large hole in her chest.  
  
When he looks up, it’s directly into the camera, sooty black hair all but obscuring his eyes, but that flash that you get of them is enough. The Capitol gets one look at those eyes and they know that this will be a Games to remember.  
  
And it will be.  
  
.  
  
The Boy Who Lived, they call him.  
  
He is all your father talks about for a week after the games. He is every sigh and shudder the people make. Pastries are created in his honor, drinks are downed on his merit. He is what the Avox would whisper about if they still had tongues.  
  
He is the new Finnick Odair, their golden boy.  
  
The Boy Who Lived, as if he’s any different than all the other men and women who’d come before him—all the other victors who had _lived_.  
  
You are quiet.  
  
He intrigues and frightens you in equal measures, and you dare not speak a word of him until you’ve decided which you feel more.  
  
Let mother think you odd for keeping silent when the previous game you had bragged for days about predicting the winner. There will be time to act the spoiled child later. For now, you watch the newfeeds, listen to the people, and wait to see if this boy is the one that the Districts are talking about.  
  
.  
  
Sometimes you think that the people choose to forget that The Boy Who Lived didn’t make it to the end on his own. They don’t remember the boy with the fire-kissed hair from District 12, who you imagine would have soot smeared across his nose at all times if his stylist and prep team hadn’t gotten to him first. And they certainly choose to forget the clever girl from District 3 who carried their victor, their ‘Boy Who Lived’ all the way to the finish line.  
  
No one seems to remember how the three of them had banded together, an unlikely trio of Careers, who had decimated the rest of the playing field until the redheaded boy had fallen prey to the arena and the clever girl falling shortly after, taking a crossbow bolt to the gut so their boy could live.  
  
They certainly don’t seem to remember how the three had curled together at night, how the boys had pressed kisses to the girl’s hair—how they had kissed each other all over until the three had fallen into an uneasy sleep.  
  
No one remembers the losers, even when they should.  
  
.  
  
You meet him a year after his game took place, when there are two new children from District 1 for him to look after—a girl with skin like smooth chocolate and a boy golden hair and shrewd, calculating eyes.  
  
He’s still thin enough that you think the bones beneath his skin could cut someone if he really tried, his soot dark hair tangled to the point that he could hide a bird in there and no one would be the wiser. The fragile skin beneath his eyes are smudged with bruises and he still makes you think of feral dogs, half starved and willing to kill.  
  
He’s talking to his tributes when you approach him, voice low enough that you cannot make out his words. When he sees you, his eyes flash and it’s only your pride that saves you from flinching.  
  
“Go find Zabini, Padma,” he tells the girl, who nods and starts off, only to pause and glare until the other boy follows her.  
  
When they’re gone, he returns his attention to you, and though his posture is weak, shoulders slumped and hands tucked into his pockets, you have no doubt that he could kill you in moments if he wished. A bit at a loss for words, you extend a hand to him, and will it to refrain from shaking.  
  
“Draco Malfoy,” you offer, pleased that your hand doesn’t appear to be shaking.  
  
He gives your hand a disdainful look and pointedly digs his own hands deeper into his pockets. “That isn’t my name,” he shrugs, something darkly amused in his eyes.  
  
You glare at him and when he still doesn’t take your hand, you let it drop. “That’s my name,” you tell him, teeth gritted in frustration. “Every fool in Panem knows yours.”  
  
He chuckles, a sound like nails on rusted metal. “Do they really? Tell me then, what is my name?”  
  
You frown at him. “Harry Potter,” you breathe, the name you’ve been breathing into tangled sheets for a year now, since you were fifteen years old and so pumped full of hormones that the thought of the bloody creature on the screens fucking you had you coming so hard you’d nearly blacked out.  
  
He gives you a considering look and then laughs again. It may be your imagination, but the sound seems a fraction warmer this time, like you’d passed some kind of test. “You’ve done your homework,” he says, smiling at you when the laughter dies down. “Most people would have said ‘The Boy Who Lived’”  
  
“But that isn’t your name,” you say, puzzled, and are rewarded when he laughs again, pushing off the wall and closing the space between you. He takes hold of your elbow, gently, like you’ll break, and pulls you down the hall with him. You pass an Avox with red hair and are briefly surprised when he smiles and nods to her, only to have the greeting returned in kind.  
  
“No, it isn’t,” he says after several minutes of the two of you walking in silence. “But most people aren’t bothered to remember the real one.”  
  
You think of the clever girl from 3 who had gotten the three of them out of man-eating vines and sharp, vicious winged keys—and the boy from 12 who’d given his life so the two of them could live.  
  
“Most people don’t bother to _remember_ ,” you reply. He stops in the middle of the hall, unbothered by the fact that he’s blocking a trolley of food from this building’s dining room, and studies you for a long moment, his eyes just as intense as they ever were in the arena.  
  
After a moment, he smiles again, a lopsided little thing that you think might even be true. “No,” he says. “They really don’t.”  
  
It’s only when the two of you have resumed your walk that you hear his whisper, quiet and dangerous enough that a shiver goes down your spine. “But they will.”  
  
.  
  
The day that the first of his tributes dies, the boy called Zacharias with the shrewd eyes, he holds you down and fucks you into your mattress, his breath hot on the back of your neck.  
  
He doesn’t say much, but when he’s finished, he presses wet lashes and a cold nose into your shoulder.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he’ll say later with a guilty look his eyes, as he’s helping you apply a pale cream to hide the bruises on your wrists. “I lost my temper.”  
  
“You brute,” you say fondly, and kiss the back of his hand.  
  
.  
  
When the girl, Padma, dies, he is entirely too still—watching the footage of her corpse being lifted into the air—his mouth a thin, flat line.  
  
You press a hand to his shoulder and feel his shudder all the way in your toes.  
  
“She had a twin sister,” he tells you later, when the two of you are shut away into your room. “Padma volunteered because Parvati never would have made it past the Cornucopia, though she’d kill you if you implied her sister was any weaker for it.”  
  
He laughs into his hands and it’s that sound, broken and wet, that makes you pull him into the circle of your arms and kiss his mouth.  
  
“Two years ago,” you tell him, “I would have hated you. I was just one of the many spoiled little urchins of the Capitol who thought they were all powerful because of a last name. I would have thought myself above you, just because you had to play the game and I got to watch.”  
  
You pause, licking your lips and using the moment to nuzzle his hair. “I thought _that_ was power.”  
  
“What changed?” he asks, voice a mere whisper but steady.  
  
You smile. “I met a little girl from District 12 a few days after she’d won her game, told her as much, and she punched me in the balls.”  
  
He laughs with you, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you alone in your room. Your laughter dies a moment later and you rub your nose against the too sharp knobs of his spine. “You know what the Districts are saying, don’t you? About you?” you ask him, wrapping your arms tighter around his waist. “After that little stunt the three of you pulled at the end of your game.”  
  
“It was Hermione’s idea,” he tells you, and you smile, because you couldn’t have imagined otherwise. He sighs heavily, and you feel his ribcage deflate beneath your palm. “She should have been the one to survive, not me. She would be able to do it better.”  
  
You shrug. “Maybe,” you concede. “But she would have been too smart. They would have gotten rid of her before she could take them all down with her.”  
  
He laughs and it sounds like a sob. “That’s what she said,” he breathes and is quiet.  
  
  
 _Belief_ is power, you think. Belief is the tool one needs in order to carry on.  
  
.  
  
A chubby boy from District 8 is declared the victor after he bumbles his way to a victory that is so boring that the game is all but deemed a failure. After all, it isn’t a win if it isn’t entertaining.  
  
You and Potter don’t attend the victory feast, choosing instead to have dinner in your bed.  
  
After, he lets you fuck him, making such sweet noises that you don’t last nearly as long as you’d like.  
  
You fall asleep with him pressed up against your back, the sweat cooling between your bodies.  
  
.  
  
He kisses you goodbye. It’s a wet, filthy kiss despite the curious onlookers that are all waiting for the same train. When he pulls back, he grins at you, stroking the hair back from your face.  
  
“I’ll see you soon,” he tells you, and you don’t need to ask how soon, because you can feel the winds changing already. There’s a certain tang to the air that makes you think of revolution and freedom, and you know that the next time you see him, there will be no idle days spent in bed as your Avox brings you food.  
  
“I’ll come back for you, Draco Malfoy,” he tells you, his palms on your cheeks as he gives you one last kiss.  
  
.  
  
It isn’t the same without him at your side. Now that you know the world’s changing, the Capitol is more frightening than it’s ever been. You hear rumors of riots in the Districts, of rebels shot down and children taken. Your father remarks on it one night at supper, saying that President Snow is worried about the rebels making it into the Capitol.  
  
The next day, a girl down the road is executed for treason.  
  
You remember his courage and begin to put your plans into motion.  
  
You’re going to need an army.  
  
.  
  
You start with two of your oldest friends and work from there, traveling in circles that would guarantee a rope around your neck should you get caught.  
  
.  
  
Three months after you said goodbye, the victor from district 8 is put to death. His execution isn’t publicized, so there may be hope. Perhaps he’d joined the rebels and his absence was noticed.  
  
But then, perhaps not.  
  
The Capitol is more dangerous than ever and you stick to the shadows.  
  
.  
  
When he comes for you, it isn’t a moment too soon.  
  
You take your savings, two of your most loyal friends, and your mother.  
  
“I told you I’d come back for you,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your neck. You look at him, this skinny waif of a man, and wonder how he’s become the face of the rebellion. You’ve seen the symbols, the mockingjays and the phoenix’s that the people gather behind. They still call him The Boy Who Lived, the First Phoenix. The boy who rose from the ashes, they say, and you shudder and think of the fires at the end of his game.  
  
The road ahead of you will not be easy. People will die, perhaps even you.  
  
You kiss him.  
  
Things are changing, a rebellion is under way, and you’ll either rise from the ashes or be buried beneath them.  
  
Belief is power, you think, and offer your hand.  
  
This time, he takes it.


End file.
